The Return to Baker Street
by 10111993
Summary: It's been a year and a half, and Watson is preparing to move on from the But things aren't always as they seem, and the past is about to cross with him in a nasty Sherlock-Watson reunite, with a healthy (not for poor john, anyway) amount of Watson Slow start, but lots of action later, I


September wind blew vigorously, assailing the outdoor occupants of London with brisk gusts. The day was cold, the air crisp and in a yard a long ways away from 221 Baker Street, a man gently pressed the tip of a SIG P226 to his lips. His stood with his back to the wind, salt and peppered hair ruffled by the air currents and collar sternly upturned against them, feet set a precise width apart to minimize deviation in his movements. Normally broad, open and friendly, his face was contorted in a picture of perfect concentration, an unconscious emulation of another face, perhaps a ritualized reminiscence of his subconscious. His brows, a lightly peppered brown, were drawn over tightly closed lids. Hints of stress lines wormed their way across the planes of his face, aging the young features.

Seconds passed as the doctor listened to his pulse, blind and deaf to anything but the calm beat of his pulse. _Good. Just how I want it, _he thought, before squeezing his hand on the grip. Far more than angry, he looked lost, detached, the only man in the country for miles around, greying and determinedly holding for all he was worth onto the worn grip of a gun which had rested on his left hip for many years. The distant sound of conversation and vehicles coming and going barely permeated his bubble of concentration.

"BLOODY HELL! WATSON, ISN'T IT?"

Four gun shots went off, leaving a perfect geometry of bullet holes in the target.

A man was coming over the impossibly green rise of the hillside, and John turned around, clicking the safety on and tucking it into the back band of his pants. Clad in a plaid sports coat and a grey chimney-sweeper hat, the man ascended the emerald mass John had been shooting from, a hunting rifle uncocked and tucked casually under his arm.

John watched his approach passively, but with a hand resting loosely under his own jacket. The chances, of anything, were too high to discount. He certainly wasn't from Mycroft. There would be far more tinted windows and black suits involved if he were. Besides, he hadn't been in contact with Mycroft since…well. But he could be anyone else. And as far as John was concerned, anyone else constituted a hit man. But the man's features, which were swimming slowly into focus, were vaguely familiar.

And then it struck him.

"John, my god, it's been years! Remember Uni together? Blimey, how long has it been! Fancy meeting you here!"

"George?" John asked cautiously, tentative to identify a long-lost frat-mate. Delta Sigma Phi, if he was remembering correctly. Not his cup of tea exactly, but then again he had always appreciated the, per say, more "refined" forms of entertainment though a good game of rugby was very good entertainment.. Now he remembered - George had been a bit of a knob, actually. Still was, if his blatant jabbering was anything to go by.

"Out of the army now, eh? Been reading' the papers, you still running around with that Sherlock bloke?" It was inevitable that he would have to hear his name again, but after avoiding it for the last year and a half of his life, he had become irresponsibly accustomed to it's shock which jolted him like a bucket of ice water.

"No, no, not anymore. Just sort of…taking a break from it all, I guess." John gave a vague hand motion, aiming to encapsulate life in its entirety of ups and downs and whirl-a-rounds, but perhaps he had been too vague.

"Big fan of your blog, I am. It's too bad you've taken a break." Bloody hell, hadn't he read the newspapers? How had this man missed the "scandal of the century," as they were calling it? The "coup de ta" of news stories?

But then, John realized that his last desire had been granted: Sherlock had dropped from the public as surely as a stone through water, coming to rest at the murky bottom with the rest of the victims of publicity. Sherlock should never have been there - he was brilliant, far beyond the rest, and John'd never wanted it to end like this. He deserved to be at the top, deserved to be recognized as the man he was, a man who had solved more crimes than London's own police, a mind pure of anything but sheer intellect. A genius, and also John's best friend, regardless of any lack of feelings towards John himself.

The greatest man he had the privilege of knowing.

"Well, good seeing you again, Watson! Got to go lube this girl up," George continued cheerfully, slipping in a sly wink and gesturing at his rifle," and chivvy along before the season's over! Cheers!" And with a wave, George disappeared over the rise again, walking further into the plains. Watson watched him go with a frown, refraining from pinching his brow and sighing in that familiar motion he had come to associate with years not long past.

Well. The jar of worms was open, and now the retired surgeon scrubbed his face tiredly with a dry hand and trudged back towards his car, preparing for a night of hard liquor and no rest.

George's appearance had only heightened a feeling of forbiddance that already twisted his insides. John had the teetering feeling of being on the brink of change, and the mist now spraying into his face only seemed to confirm the anticipation which had followed him in and out of coffee shops the last month.

He stuck his tongue out, and tasted the salt with a sort of detached curiousity that mingled with resolve. There was a storm coming, and John Watson intended to be prepared for it.

* * *

The clink of cubes against crystal echoed in the tiny apartment, a clattering that was interrupted by a liberal splash of alcohol and the sound of heavy swallowing. It was impossible to tell anything in the apartment, aside from the dim outline of a couch and other scattered furniture. It was tuesday, which meant the land lady was coming. He really ought to clean the numberless array of glasses laying haphazardly on their sides over the apartment, open the blinds and dust the damn room, but she was no Mrs. Hudson, and he had no will to get off the couch. The gin was treating him just fine. To hell with the world's expectations, he would sit there and do exactly as he pleased.

The gin tasted sweet as he swilled it in his tongue, but it was a wasted flavor. The telly was a black expanse in the dark room; he made no move to reach for the remote. Instead, he stared dazedly at the smooth surface, trying not to think about anything in particular. With trembling hands, he poured another glass of gin and downed it, letting it pull him into the lulling embrace of sleep. His head fell back against the green upholstery without resistance, and his eyes finally slipped shut.

* * *

The room was dark, but this time there were no blinds. The tiny barred hole peeked out at curb level, set slightly below ground level. The air was damp, and the stone cold against his bare feet. The wood chair was merely hard. He had no sense of time, not for the lack of light but for the lack of concentration. Sherlock would surely have scolded him for this, he thought dizzily, and started to apologize before remembering he was dead. Dead, and here John was stuck in a cell in some obscure part of London, unable to escape by means of his own intellect. _S_urely the Great Detective would… and then he vomited, doubling over and clenching his body as his side screamed at him and the acidify of his stomach lining tore at his throat again. Throbbing pain was better than the other pain, the immediate pain, at the very least. John had no doubt, however, as a trickle of blood spilled over his lips, that it was any less dangerous. By now, there would be internal hemorrhaging, perhaps even capillary, the extravasated blood pooling back into his body. His bi-lateral arm ligaments were almost certainly damaged, having supported his full weight for all of twelve hours before he was allowed the chair. The rest John could not catalogue.

The cubes fell to the floor and spilled, rolling to a stop somewhere beneath the sofa to melt in soft pools of dust.

"Let's play a game, John. The rules are simple enough; I make the rules, and you follow them. I win, you die. Isn't that nice and tidy? Uncomplicated. A simple mind like yours can understand this."

"Always wandering around, sticking your nose in business and following your master like a good dog, always faithful. Messing up my business. Yes, you understand why I must do this? It's nothing personal, John. Well, maybe just an intsy-teensy bit. Just a bit of business to clean up. How convenient that Mr. Holmes provided a solution to my problems himself. Now, let's get started. I've always enjoyed a good show, and you, Mr. Watson, will certainly provide it, yes. The stubborn ones are always the best. "

The door shut with a bang, and with a strangled shout John sat up in the armchair.


End file.
